


My Little WASP: customer satisfaction

by lustepic



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Futa/female, Futanari, Student/Teacher, huge cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22128940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustepic/pseuds/lustepic
Summary: with a kind permission from kringles31, here is a vignette I have written in his "Slave to the Loli Futa's: Grown-ups dominated by loli futa's" setting. But before reading it, a word of warning: I'm not a very good writer and english isn't my mother tongue, so the contents abound with weird, looong sentence structures. In addition to errors in grammar and inappropriate word choices.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	My Little WASP: customer satisfaction

** Customer Satisfaction **

Squeezed in middle of suburban setting, between duplexes, the large three story fake brick manor with fanciful turrets and towers at the corners to mimic fairy-tail château looked sorely out of place. Same as the house, the still skinny preteen girl standing at the iron gate was incongruous in the ballroom princess gown she was wearing. And also like with the house, someone had done a lot of work to retrofit the adult version of elegant deluxe dress’ bodice to flatter the meager curves.

Called Cinderella, and not just Cindy as her mother had named her, had nothing and everything to do with the gown shimmering in all shades of blue. The reason everybody called the girl Cinderella was that nobody in their right mind disagrees with someone who can build a mound of cars by tossing all the vehicles in the mall’s parking area into one big pile on top of which to play the princess of the hill. Even if she is only 4 feet and don’t weight more than 60lbs. Not more than once. Not if she insists herself to be called Cinderella, or if she asks for something she wants. 

The white anglo-saxon princess with thick, flowing ringlets in front of the ersatz castle could hardly contain her excitement. The three inch translucent plastic heels had practically skipped the whole way from school in glee. Inside the designer My Little Pony bag pouncing at back was a thingamajig from her friend Hannah that would provide the means for the last, missing piece that would finally make the castle complete. 

A pink tongue tip extended to lick lips curling at remembering the day when the idea of a castle had struck. The notion of a palace for princess to live in had been quite logical one. 

****

Adjusting again the camcorder’s focus at mouth slurping and graceful throat working frantically below cerulean hemline gathered up to prepubescent slim waist, Ms. Pazolla enthused from behind a tripod, “That’s excellent idea, Cinderella!” 

“What ab0out you, missus?” 

To allow Miss June to answer, a thick flesh scepter had to be hauled out through the girdle formed by cherry lips. Retracted, the scepter’s tip left behind a gooey tendril connected to a chic chin of voluptuous woman kneeling naked on the mid aisle of full stacked grocery shelves.The melon titted and titian haired kneeler could having made the cover of any fashion magazine that didn’t pander to stereotypical anorexic, walking pencils. The reason she was the perfect model for lush June. 

Deep inhaling triggering paroxysm of coughing blowing spittle and bubbles, graceful throat gulped several times. The sticky residuals clogging the esophagus cleared she stammered, “S-Sorry Cinderella, I was ... preoccupied, so I didn’t catch the question.”

A dainty plastic slipper tapped on the floor tile as the earlier statement was repeated, “I said, we need more and different kind of footage.”

“Of course! What a wonderful idea!” Agreed the kneeling shop-manager in hastily wheezed assent. 

Focusing on the retracted, awe-inspiring, heavily dangling length, the wide angle lens spanning back and fort, behind tripod the camera handler offered also her enthusiastic support at the notion. “That’s smashing, like this video calendar is marvelous idea, Cinderella. And we have plenty of time. There is still over hour’s worth left at high definition.” 

Totally adorable heartbreaker in her shimmering gown and thick blond corkscrew curls, the preteen girl brandishing a decidedly unprincessly cumbersome flesh-scepter at her groin beamed at the two adult women; basking in their mesmerized and enthusiastic agreements at the splendidness of artist activity performed in the store. 

“I think the next scene should be there. What do you think?” An imperiously waved arm pointed at the large, extensively stocked fruit stall at the aisles end. 

“That’s just brilliant, Cinderella!” The dazzlingly smiling, platinum blonde teacher’s agreement couldn’t have been heartier, not unless the suggestion had been her to take a spreadeagled pose there. And should the suggestion have included to stuff one of the cantaloupes from the stall inside the receptacle between her legs and carry it that way to checkout, it wouldn’t have strained the said container measurably. Not considering the dimensions it had been over the past year numerous times expanded. Now, the melons might have poised some challenge. The bigger ones at least.

Unaccustomed to the heaviness of fake six-month baby-bump that had transmuted her to the quintessential illustration of fertility, the awkward rise from kneeling contemplated with furrowed brows, the glamour-puss model’s arms cradled its ungainly weight. Duckwalking as fast as she could, she followed the assertive preteen striding towards the fruit stall. Hurried by tapping foot, the shop-manager-cum-model hastened to beside the elfin artist toting massive implement for the kind artistry they were engaged in. Reaching the indicated point a commanding finger pointed, supporting the sloshing belly she squatted down into easier position for someone just learning how to walk and stand after her stomach had been inflated by gallons of sperm. Hunching over also stopped inadvertent overshadowing of the authoritative and enchanting elfin preteen—so cute, exquisite, except the intimidating scepter she sported in her groin. 

Checking up and down the in crouching position still slightly taller Miss June, assessing the voluptuous curves available for her current masterwork underway, the aristocratic artist mused, “On top of the fruits, of course, but on her back or belly? What do you think, Ms. Pazolla?” 

The reply of petite teacher preoccupied wrestling with the camera tripod in effort to set it so she would get the best angle, no matter which position was chosen, was filled with utter conviction, “I’m sure whatever you decide will be perfect, Cinderella.” 

“On the back. That’s better.” Was the final decision, the whole point of the shoot being showing how gravid a belly could get. The decision made, the docile gravure model was picked up effortlessly and laid supine on top of the fruits.

“No, something is missing.” The setting eyed critically, with muttered, “No, this isn’t good either...” biddable limbs were positioned this and that way, until finally acceptable scene emerged: a preggo bimbette reclining in pinup posture on top of field of ripe fruits and vegetables. One leg bent and hands cradling a smooth, striated ten pound melon accentuated how alike the tanned, string bikini versions were. And also conspicuously emphasized the gravidness of the belly. 

“No. It still isn’t right” Was final vexed verdict. “The scale is off.”

From the vantage point behind the camera a diffident, barely audible voice murmured deferentially, “What if, for example, if you think it’s a good idea, Cinderella, the melon was a smaller one?” 

The small but already talented hands thoughtfully rubbing her _brush_ , the artist didn’t condescend to look at the sycophantic, creativity and style lacking suggestion’s direction. The melon was perfect. It was something else that needed correction. Critical eyes roaming over the imperfect judged artwork and settling on the bulging belly, out of blue eureka struck. 

“I got it! The _tummy_ needs to be _bigger_!”The fertility artist shouted as her hands grasped tightly the source of her creative productiveness burgeoning with passion.

From behind the camera, an immediate, fawning praise supported the new idea, and the burgeoning effect it had on the artist’s _brush_. “That’s just brilliant, Cinderella. It’s exactly the right thing!” 

The dirty look the model directed at the camera’s direction could be edited out of the video later.

“But I’m already overflowing! You can’t force a drop more or my stomach is gonna burst! The last two batches didn’t help any!” Alarmed Miss June protested, her heaving, expanded belly already as big as if she had swallowed whole a twin to a melon slender arms were holding. A pearly glob coughed up and dribbling from corner of the mouth corroborated the truth of the outcry. 

“No worries. There is another way.” She was assured, the outright blasé stance overriding the objection of the artistic inspiration’s unreasonableness. The semi-torpid brush stiffening swiftly to rigidity required for shaping a peerless object d’art, and the model’s long, toned legs lifted and spread wide, the other way was revealed _._

Hazel eyes able to give accurate estimate of poundage for every item stacked in the store’s shelves and stalls shedded their docile haziness and widened in appalled fascination at the rate the artist’s ardor for her art was growing, and growing—every elongating inch increasing its whopping, prodding _poundage_. 

“Please, Cinderella, surely you don’t need to any bigger! You’re already bigger than the supersize hoagies we have on sale— _ngghhh_!” The tip of engorged and hardened artistry implement placed at the nexus of spreadeagled legs, the first pound jabbed between the pink lobes, cutting off the twittery jabber in mid-sentence. 

Advertised by loud squelch, and crunch of several fruits being crushed to bits below the sybaritic buttocks, the vertical bacon sandwich struggled with much, much more meat than the store’s special hoagies contained. Thankfully the thick girthed, hulking meat mallet’s rotund tip had been only moments before coated unstintingly with lubricating layer of saliva. With lubricious glaze the friction of irritated thrust on presently only drizzling and not gushing dick depository was reduced enough that the callously parted and elongated folds didn’t tear. 

Outwardly nonchalant, the artful begetter gifted with extreme phallicism was miffed at being compared to a greasy baguettes. Especially since everyone who had tasted the produce of the heavy art supplement producing nutbags quotas would unanimously agree the baked loafs not being nearly as mouth-watering and belly-bursting filling as single of their discharges.

Laboring with the bulky cock-bologna, the store-manager’s terror stricken slick inner walls past the gaping entrance clutched and massaged hysterically at the excessive poundage forcing them to widen and elongate to the edge of their elasticity. In startled response to unprecedented distress of distention, the liberal amount of genital marinade secreted attempted to diminish the friction of the inexorable, turgid thickness inward cramming without consideration for proper anointment and normal hour long necessary prepping required for an ingenue.

“ _Christ! PLEASE,_ _CINDERELLA, NOT SO ROUGH! You’ll ruin the merchandise!”_ Piteous wail and spoilage ignored, the excessive poundage encroached deeper, exerting bisecting forces past anything prior. An outcome even less expert eyes could have easily predicted. 

Gifted loins continuing to shunt the attached, disproportionate massive fattened lengthiness inexorably onwards unheeded of agonized grunts, the bright chatting continued, “While knocking up for the shoot, I think I might as well answer in momma’s stead at that customer satisfaction survey you gave her the other day.” 

The questionary had been in the shopping bag given its customary rummage, while enjoying eating sugar and honey coated breakfast cereals. The eating or reading quite unhampered by muffled slurping and moans underneath the kitchen table. 

The noises in fact being the same kind of comforting sounds accustomed to listen while falling asleep. Cindy genuinely having hard time to relax and slip into dreamlands, if there wasn’t rhythmically raising and lowering, aurally soothing droning of ecstasy guiding the sandman to her. 

“For the first question of coming how often, the answer is...” One little-girl hand released its terribly strong grip of trembling thigh and raised up, fingers counting with under-breath listing. “First Momma, then both my sisters, of course. The morning pretty lady at the candy store, Mrs. Pazolla,” the hold on the other thigh was also released so the counting could continue, “Mrs. Thao, Mrs. Fullbuster, Mrs. Pazolla again, the afternoon nice lady at the candy store, the two aunties at the bus-stop…” Having run out midway digits to count, the recital of sperm filled bellies stopped. Shoulders shrugging, the counting that would have had to continued with couple of extra hands digits to reach the end, the fingers settled back to the thighs to keep them flopping around during next stage of moulding peerless art work. “Over ten times, but...” The grips tightening and the equally super-strong pelvic muscles pushing forward, several more of the inflated and firmed inches crammed into the overburdened orifice struggling to cope with the amount, the disproportionately hefty girth putting extra thick underscore on the answer, “...per day, not week.” 

“ _Ngggh! Please, Cinderella, e-easy...easy!_ ” 

Still wedged only part way in, the tumescent, rigid brush’s wide tip already banged at the inner entrance of panic pinched sleeve gripping it in vice like tightness; the way into the second cavity adjacent to the stomach swollen by gallons pumped inside earlier. A fertile tabula rasa ready to be painted—and overfilled—with yogurt thick sticky whiteness. The aim of the ponderous, heavy and low hanging swollen artist supplement factories of royal, peerless gouache at the other end of inflexible underliner to inflate the insufficient judged molehill into last trimester mountain by increasing the sloshing inside the abdomen dome. 

Whilst the worlds most potent fertility artist made headway with replies to questionary, the thickened, tumescence girder’s blunt, solid tip exerted ever increasing pressure against the spongy cup of cervix; pushed deepest it could retreat at the end of elongated funnel. Grinding forward, the tip was adamant to enter at the closeted space, which not too distant future consisted getting blown up larger and increasing the expansion of already semi-hemispherical inflated abdomen. 

For artistic purpose only, of course.

“The second, both. I like to browse before I select what I want. And yes, I found what I was looking for. As for the fourth, somewhat knowledgable.” The blithe answers continued.

The shop-manager’s petrified eyes transfixed at the distant origin point, whence the extensive massiveness still waiting immersion extended, lighted up into indignation at the disparaging remark. Dragged up from the faraway source of her slicker and stickier growing situation they lifted affronted gaze on the disconcertingly captivating face embellished with impish grin. 

“For the past five years this store has been awarded the honors for the— _OWWW!_ _OH GOD! FUUUCK!!_ ” 

The loud shriek identified the exact moment when the flanged stud marginally spongier on Mohs scale embellishing the other end of the steeliness made headway by punching at and breaching the inner entrance. Busting through the obstruction, it interrupted the outraged listing of the honoraries awarded to the store before it could even start. 

“The fifth, less than helpful, since they offer their own opinions too much, thinking they know better than customer what she wants. Same with friendliness. Pleasant and nice, but too patronizing. But a bonus for the seventh. They are very cozy.” A smug nod downwards called back the attention of ceiling risen eyes full of shock at the breach, on the still remaining surplus length, waiting its packing into the bijou box lined with pink and maroon velvet. “Now, the last one about competit… compatit... compactiv... compactness, will be found out pretty soon.” 

Already stuffed to uttermost capacity, chock-full of rigid cock-bologna, nevertheless the panting, vainglorious proprietress attempted to defend the honor of her store to the last fraction of an inch. “What you are waiting for then? I’ll show that my store is the greatest in the county— _UWAAAH! NO! NOOO!! TH-THAT’S UNFAIR!_ ” 

The smile of world’s yet unacknowledged biggest begetter enlarged into cocky grin in sync with the cause of the outburst. And the reason it had been grievous error to brag being the best. 

“Too big! Toobigtoobig! _TOOOOO_ _BIIIIIG_! If you’ll cram all that inside, I’ll rip apart!!” Terror stricken shop-manager protested. Pushed further along the bed of fruits merely by the further fattening and elongation of the already massive princess-cock, the blanching pussy proprietor was sure if its breadth expanded or length extended even tiny bit more her bijou basket was going to burst at the seams.

Lips curling in amusement, Cindy shook her curls. “Not with only this. Not if you really are the best. You boast being the number one, so I’m gonna test if you really are better than all the rest.”

The wonky skin flick having progressed long ago from vanilla softcore into preggo gonzo, the shop-manager knew herself trapped; in total mercy of a bull-headed and -cocked, ballgown dolled-up preteen girl. A cocksure super-cuteness on steroids, who had sampled all the store’s cashiers and helpers before selecting the shop’s manager coming to check what was the reason for the raucous commotion to play the role of Miss June in a smutty video calendar. A far randier one than those once on sale at the cordoned off area of adult DVDs, now permanently closed down for lack of customers. 

Luscious, peachy booty’s curves crowning the fruity cornucopia, the chagrined, spreadeagled mature voluptuousness embodying quintessential fertility could only lay trembling on top of the natures bounty arranged on lavish display. The elfin hands that had lifted and posed full grown woman effortlessly moving up from the thighs on the normally svelte waist bloated by gallon of cum sloshing inside overfull stomach, the bikini model shoulders slumped in resignation to gravid fate. 

Groping deftly, with ease of extensive practice on various measure waists, the hands found the places above hipbones where to gain a good grip on a woman whose belly has been ballooned by excessive amounts of sperm pumped inside. The rotund knob crowning the even more massive grown meat mallet’s stalk firmly anchored inside a fertile womb and hands hold secure, rest of the engorged princess-cock began to coerce its immensity into the compact hole. 

The pelvis splitting wideness crammed further with steamrollers slow speed but unstoppable steadiness, the crammer paid no heed to plaintive whines and yowls the additional inches elicited. Delving ever deeper, unhampered and unperturbed by feeble struggles, the adamant wedging reshaped the junoesque model’s internal anatomy more accommodating for the artist’s burgeoned art-implement. The airtight sealed orifice gaping, relentless probing rigorous, in-depth right at the very bottom, the mature fertility’s snug snatch strained to mold and stretch itself beyond its limits for super-deep fucking. 

On aside, the camera lens kept adjusting its focus on the unbending cock bridge spanning the wide chasm separating the groins. After the latest growth spurt doubling the bridging length and girth, it struggled to captured all of it. The camera handler’s own in envy jilled aperture between legs leaking lubricants on the store’s spotless floor, the camera’s recorded for posterity cinematic evidence of the ephemeris act celebrating fertility.

The rigid firmness. The broad gaping-ness of a wet and steamy cunt. The determination to close the wide gap. The wide protuberance gracing and inching father along the engorged belly dome. The stuffers firm, amazing resoluteness to her art. 

Recalling her own first time experiencing the same, the camera handler feared—and in small part hoped—that the to ever bigger dome bellied status doomed shop-manager would pass out. The Vogue cover worthy face freezing in rictus and not rapture, if the abdominal assault continued without stop all the way. Consequently, when the shining silk embellished slinky loins halted their forward momentum and began reluctant retracting, breath held in reminiscent dread and anticipation expelled with mixture of relief. And not a little bit of disappointment. 

The grudgingly done withdrawal pulled out a quarter of the impaled span. 

The reason for the ever forward pressing intrusion changing into extraction wasn’t the pained, halting gasping. Incredulous groans and gasps were customary and totally befitting reactions. The reason was the protruding eyes. Bulging, looking ready to pop out at any moment, they ruined the artistic impression strived for. Allowing a few wheezing, huffing and puffing minutes recess in the artful stuffing, the panting steadying back into heavy moaning, they returned to more cinematically acceptable wide-eyed stupefaction.

Paying more attention to the model’s facial expressions, the endeavor to wedge additional fraction of inches of super-sturdy bulkiness engorged art implement into the velvety comfiness resumed. The dazed countenance observed closely on in-strokes, the silk gowned loins halted and drew backwards when the goggle-eyed bugging started to manifest. 

Unstoppable cramming adjusted into fine-tuned seesawing filling and chiseling the leading funnel and inner cavity more roomier, every now and then the artist’s concentration shifted for a moment to evaluate also the model’s auditory responses. In satisfactory manner each extra stuffing inch increased the loudness of ecstatic gasps punctuating labored moans and groans. An increasingly louder cry of elation expelled out every time the rotund knob at artful lengthiness end’s forward stroke punched at the back of the spasming funnel in progress of getting expanded steadily deeper and wider. 

Keeping the visual and auditory responses cinematically acceptable, the slinky hips swayed back and fort in leisure pace.

No more just getting squashed and shunted aside, the increasingly harder orgasming model-cumdumpster’s repositioned organs and overstressed abdominal tissues endeavoring to extend their elasticity enough to encompass all of the artist’s enormous talent had more time to adjust themselves at the deeply reaching cramming. The straining, clutching bijou’s dimensions being expanded many times past their normal depth and breadth by the massive flesh scepter’s bulk, the visceral, paroxysmal spasms source were revamped from twinges into ever increasing exquisite, well-crafted pangs of pleasure. 

Immersed in creating a piece of exemplary fertility artwork, while contemplating her model’s visage, the intent frown under the princess bangs changed into knowing grin. The expressions of astonished, agog mien were progressing in familiar sequence: _Oh.My.Fucking.God, she’s packing me so full of cock!Filling me completely!! Fucking me so deep!!_ _All the way back to my womb!!! No, deeper!!! And-it’s-so-fucking-great!!!! I’m cumming, and cumming, and cumming, cummiiiing!!! Cummiiiing so fucking hard all the time!!!!!_

Loins swaying in chiseling thrusts hewing the model’s innards roomier with the appropriate, but in all dimensions oversized tool for the art she was engaged in, grin broadening into smirk Cindy asked, “Still interested in making good of your boast?”

Despite the distress of abdominal membranes twanging in piano-wire tautness, to her everlasting surprise the royally fuller and fuller crammed shop-manager sensed some surplus in her straining insides. Hips maneuvering themselves with cautious rolling and back arching, surreptitiously her body instinctively moved into better position on the bed of fruits. The minuscule amount of slack in dreadfully stressed cuntal tissues trying to accommodate the amount already extending them increasing, the new found elasticity and extra space where to shove the excessive poundage meant easier stuffing. Less fearful now that the worst seemed over, reconciled and abdominal tissues acclimatized at being stretched at and then past their expiration limits, she felt ready for more. 

For the honor of the store, naturally. 

Even so, there was some extremely crucial info missing. Reclining with arched spine on the extravagant fruity cornucopia, there was no way to quantify the amount of obscenely supersized hard-on still waiting packing into her pink bijou box. 

Albeit apprehensive about accommodating the unknown amounts of her customer’s breath stopping requirement’s depths, she still bragged, “Yes-yes, I-I do. But...I-I can’t feel your...you know...” 

The stuttered bravado had an exquisite blond eyebrow under the princess bangs lift into quizzical arc. 

For the moment only half of the royal scepter’s length impaling into lubricious muff drizzling rivulets of cunt-cream around its girth, it was self-evident what the faltering, unasked question had been. 

Impishly the artist decided to play clueless. With beguiling innocency she asked, “My what?”

“Your whopping big pair of…” A slight crinkling of forehead warning against improper language, a split second furious reflection found suitable substitute “...creme-de-la-creme eggs. I can’t feel them in my...buns. There is more, isn’t— _OH GOD!_ ” Again in mid-sentence the worried, yet eager babble was cut off by slinky hips slight nudge pushing the lump adorning the bulging stomach higher. 

Small palm placed soothingly on the dome of the overfull belly, to prevent inciting bout of panic with truth, it was stretched in the same way as the model’s innards, “Yes, but no worries. It’s no biggie.” 

The softly murmured half-truth of the span of full grown extra large zucchini sized artist implement’s immersion calmed the hot and sweaty, ripe and ready fertility model. 

Expertly rubbing skin stretched taut from internal pressure, the palm quelled dome’s tremulous shaking; alleviating also the shaking of pelvis jerking in nervous and anxious eagerness from the hair and ecstasy rising prospect of the unknown amount more of the rigid, royal beefiness filling the insides already feeling strained to tearing point. While the stroking hand eased the anxiousness of the only partially completed artwork, the other arranged couple of big drupes near the perfect booty. The fruits positioned judiciously in place, the hands returned their hold to thighs trembling in equal parts of ardor and apprehension. 

In blatant contradiction to reality, a far bigger lie than the store’s ads was told with sparkling eyes, “Relax. It’s just few teeny-weeny inches more.”

“O-okay, I-I just li-liked to know the amount to be packed in.” The shop-manager’s gaze at the adorable, deceptive cuteness beaming at her over domed belly feeling ready to burst from slightest increase of pressure inside was full of yearning trepidation. With laborious, conscious effort facilitated by decade of yoga exercises, every single muscle in the dreadfully jam packed abdomen did their utmost to unwind and loosen up. Bracing for those undisclosed, yet remaining inches waiting their stowing into already chock-full goodie basket. 

Proceeding with benevolence not shown previously, the cyclopean glans nudged and pressed forward more congenially. Nevertheless, the constant, relentless plunges cramming pushing in small increments limits farther away from their origins, the bijou’s constricting boundaries were expanded further. 

The back and fort sliding of the massive princess-cock inside the tight tunnel clenching around it in death grip spasms was eased and facilitated, a lot, by the overflowing, profuse lubrication; while the elfin hands secure hold granted precise control just how much of the several extra inches available for plunging were plumbed into the fluids spilling soaking pot in each slinky loins artwork cultivating plough.

Well-balanced in a stance that was perfect to remain erect, for hours if need between a pair of wide splayed legs, the Cinderella gown billowed and rippled around the with restrained serenity swaying waist. Gradually drilling additional inches in, the unprincessly, bigger than king-sized, the queen-sized appendage seesawed majestically in and out of the slippery squeeze’s grip. The compact conduit and cavity at its end expanded by the encroaching massiveness’ nudging and poking, they were elongated and drawn out to their utmost elasticity. 

Legs and body trembling in the unshakable grips, the shop-manager hugged the watermelon she had been given to hold. Lifting the striated globe higher from its perch in the cleavage-belly gully red glossed lips smooched its smooth, hard skin. The pouty ones that had struggled to garland the previously much slimmer incarnation choking the swan throat, as the presently over thrice thicker girth was splitting the stressed, wafer-thin stretched, tawny haired ones not normally on over-the-counter display. The intent of thelips crushing kiss was to prevent the mouth uttering a plea for more vigorous ramming. 

The fear of unknown was forgotten entirely in the wake of upwelling visceral spasms surging higher from extensive, ever  deeper reaching tissue manipulation. The tightly clutching funnel prodded roomier bit by extra fraction bit wedged in. Aimed at easing tensions, as well as release and realignment, the skillful wedging's comparative gentleness helped to mask how the model’s abdominal coital canal and chamber were being moulded ever more spacious. Much, much more roomier than ever before to accommodate royal customer’s demands.

Innate urges clamoring for more forceful ramming rising higher and higher, the shop-manager feared her tender sheath couldn’t take it. Her bijou prick-receptacle rupturing and splitting like a bunch of ripe bananas underneath her peachy buns had done. But—and it was a big but, exactly the size of the regal appendage churning and realigning struggling insides and mind — unless every last fabulous and maddeningly turgid inchmeal exerting dominance over psyche and physique got packed into her pink furnished box, she could hardly justify the claim her store being the one offering the very best customer satisfaction in town. 

On the teetering scales of consequences and wants, weight skewed completely for the latter, after a short while the outcome was foregone conclusion. Preventing it would have required the melon to be stuffed wholly into the mouth to restrain it. 

Eyelids fluttering and crunching from rapid recurrences of back-arching seizures, behind the striped plant timorous voice stuttered amidst high pitched yelps, choked groans and loud gasps, “Could you pu-push the rest in, Cindy...rella? A-and maybe a li-little fa-faster and ha-harder.” 

The bijou’s purveyor lucked out. The mispronunciation of artist’s moniker was missed in leisure expanding of an impromptu starlet’s exquisite, tight cunt. 

Regardless, before the timidly beseeched request could be granted, the space available for the artistic endeavor needed increasing. Conveniently, after numerous spine bending orgasms, the shop-manager’s body had attained required suppleness and malleability. 

The elfin hands grip moved from thighs to the slim ankles flailing around in the tempo of serene loin thrusts. Heels lifted first straight up, they were pushed forward and downwards, under the arms holding the melon. Finding that there was more flexibility available, pushing still further, until they were crossed all the way behind the backwards arching neck. Straining to arch its spine evermore backward in ecstasy, the shop-manager’s totally pliant body bent without too much effort into more accommodating fucktoy-pretzel, so the silk gown hips could push on, increasing the pace and extent of their swaying. 

Even so, not with all the available length as entreated. Not even close. The successive, probing jabs bestowed only half of the plundering endowments remaining extent by turgid fraction of inches into the flooding goodie repository. 

Pried skillfully looser by masterful skill as well as superhuman strength and size, every unrelenting yet totally controlled thrusts of the majestic massiveness spearing unbelievably deep, into breathtaking fulfillment, to the very edge of unbearable elation, triggered celebratory arcs of cooch-juices and precum mixture to gush from the overfull of loli-princess’ gigantic cock jam-packed honeypot. Pile-driving plunges drilling and pumping deluge of syrupy lubrication out, the excessive flooding outflowed down the crack of lush booty to soak the abundant collection of vegetables and fruits. The copious out slurping overflow quickly coating the underneath plant ensemble in thick 100% organic fuck-sludge .

Letting the lengthiness of loins artful strokes increase ever so slightly, commending her ingenue model’s acknowledged enthusiasm for her role, Cindy muttered, “First, I was sure you couldn’t, but now, I think you could, maybe, actually take me to the hilt. Your so wet, the sliding so easy. It’s like your muff’s made of melted butter.”

“We have the Artisan’s very best virginal cocknut butter in offer at aisle sex....” mumbled the totally knocked over (and up) shop-manager. Scrambled mind and heels over head body pressed into top-shelf Viennese oyster she was reeling from how much the fabulous raptures rocking and sweeping over her kept escalating with each slight increase of inches splitting her in two. Despite the huge princess-cock’s in and out sliding making it feel like getting eviscerated and having ones stuffings knocked out. 

Converted into fervent royalist, the shop-manager would have been ready swear to IRS that she had already cum more times than the cash register could total up. That’s why it took oodles of gasping and moaning causing tumescent glans impetuses at the back of non-stop spasms wrecked passageway, before belated comprehension of the musing, appreciating comment’s meaning registered. 

Every time the regal hugeness’ breath stopping thrusts bottomed, the sensation of big round things thumping against the quaking, undulating butt-cheeks getting dragged back and forth on the bed of fruits weren’t the right type, even if they were the right size. They were hairy, which meant they were real coconuts. Not the smooth, hairless ones whose volume expert eyes and weighing hands had earlier measured containing 87,9 oz of creme-de-la-creme baby-seed batter when kneeling in front of them. 

She had been deceived royally how long a stretch there was left. 

“There’s still more...isn’t there? How much more, Cindy..a..rella, before everything...is really packed in? Tell me! Please!” The halting, panted question was squeezed through teeth gritted in euphoric grimace. 

It was crazy, but she just had to know.

Instead verbal answer, the slinky hips stopped their lofty back and fort swaying motion closest so far to the tawny bush’s wide splayed pink roots circumventing the hulking shaft pistoning through them. The hold of the ankles released, the long, toned legs of fertile female anatomy contorted into tight knot of orgasm pretzel unraveled back into spread-eagled sprawl on top of the fruity cornucopia. The strength of hands gripping the melon squeezed in the cleavage-bellydome junction so hard it was miracle it hadn’t burst easily surpassed, they were made let go and check out the span between the into huge gaping-ness elongated ingress and shaft’s base.

“OH.MY.GOD! _That’s too much!_ ”, the totally pregnable, orgasm wrecked, premium pussy’s purveyor cried out, the carnal euphorias clouded eyes widening in shock.

Recoiling in renewed terror was perfectly understandable. The panicked realization striking when the blindly questing fingers tried in vain to encompass the dense trunk with the diameter of jumbo paper-towel roll (on sale in at the end of aisle twenty-four) and struggled to measure the span still separating the groins. The excessive amount of splitting inches of an unyielding, whopper princess-cock busting the bijou pussy was more than the long-fingered hands could measure between the flushed outer lobes elongated like fresh toffee from candy booth (near the checkouts) and the huge, heavy hanging baby-batter pouches. The span between the groins had not decreased at all. 

No, it had increased!

Having allowed herself extend and expand to maximal length and girth in annoyance at her moniker’s disrespectful mutilation, Cindy snapped, “Don’t fret. It’s not my intention to cock-de-grâce you. I haven’t really tried to tuck you in, not the way I normally do my mother and sisters, or Ms. Pazolla. But if you mangle my name again, I’ll do the same to you.”

“I-I’m sorry, C-Cinderella. T-There was so-something in my, um, throat. Yes, something in my throat, troubling my speech. But it’s gone now!” The hurried, stumbling apology for a slip of tongue fibbed the bit about the unreal feeling of esophagus clogging and gagging intrusion from abdomen's direction having diminished at all. 

Gazed by piqued royal blues on flawless preteen face with aristocratic mien, common sense was thrown out with caution. Since neither would help anyway. At last embracing her role as Miss June fully—as well as the melon—the shop-manager beseeched with wholehearted sincerity to her bijou’s royal and in any count and measure by far, far biggest customer ever, “Please, tuck me in, Cinderella. Like you do others. Grant me the pleasure of your big... _peter_. All of it. Tickle my tonsils from that direction too.”

The frown that had merely enhanced the royal prettiness receded with slowly vanishing pique. The trembling thighs and slim ankles at first straightened once more into widest possible split, the elfin hands returned their grip on the bloated waist. Complemented by protracted sucking sound the slinky waist started again to sway tranquilly. The flow of lewd slurping growing sharper and louder with gradual speeding up, the plunges depth remained the same. 

“More! Please, Cinderella! Give me everything!!” Ecstasy peaks climbing again higher and higher with each endless inches slam into ceaseless ecstasies gushing cock-receptacle, the enraptured, squealed begging was a total surrender to the overwhelming power of preteen princess’s humongous prick. 

Mollified, with a glint of fervor at working on a new Cinderella brand masterpiece, the artist contemplated appreciatively the bodacious and soon not fake pregnant shop-manager’s body jerking in unremitting climaxes.

“From the way you are juicing and assisting, you really, really want it. All the way. You just aren’t quite loose and spacey enough. Not yet.” 

Majestic strokes frothing the slushy and squirting bijou cunt in measured pace more roomier, the rigorously maintained managerial body shuddered and rolled in one forever ongoing climax. The twin melon spheres jerking and jiggling especially hard every time the flared mushroom at the end of seemingly endless turgid length plunged onwards. The lunges churning waves of ecstasy one after another from the rapturous model, the rapidly clenching pink cleft got steadily enlarged into ever deeper, wider gaping chasm. 

“GOD! YEASH! I really LOVE you tucking your PETER in me, CINDERELLA. Busting me wide open. _PACKING ME SO FULL!_ ” The unabashed endorsement came from the very bottom of heart—and womb. The assent blurted out by the surreal sensation of the normally much lower situated organ closing to the higher on the forward thrust; its awe from how fantastic the royal, overpowering fucking felt.

Her balloon bellied, pinup sexy model-cumdumpster recumbent form convulsing all over the fruits, and specifically on her fully engorged extent impaling and molding her artwork roomier, Cindy began humming the chorus lines of the song written specially for her. The lyrics written precisely for slap and bang moments like this in mind.

_“Cinderella, Cinderella, won’t you dance with me,_

_in your arms I never sleep_

_‘Cause I know something even the prince never knew._

_Cinderella, Cinderella, won’t you dance with me,_

_I don’t want to miss even one beat of your yards,_

_‘Cause when the knees and heels are high, there is only now.”_

It was pity the Miss June being created wasn’t appreciative enough to listen and join. Deaf to the tune and stanza, the obscene chorus of garbled adulations yelled out in effort to express the glory at getting fucked by royalty of girly-cocks drowned out the lines of Cindy’s favorite song. Not that the songs composer, Mrs. Thao, ever managed to reach the end of the first verse’s chorus either, before deteriorating into incoherent babbling. 

The genteel but exacting music teacher hated messing the lyrics, especially because it was quite simple melody to sing. The reason she didn’t want to perform it with the one it was written for in unison publicly, if there was someone else around to listen. Only singing it, or more accurately squealing and screaming the lines, as toned, old ivory lustered legs straddled the protagonist’s shoulders. Most often when being tuned on top of music room’s grand piano twanging in sympathetic distress.

Similarly to the music teacher’s, the shop-manager’s laborious, rapturous moans and groans were forced out in soft crooning’s madrigal rhythm. On frequent occasions there not being enough breath to yell out the experienced ecstasies, likewise to the everyone else getting their mind and physique molded by the royal princess-cock, she was swiftly loosing the last shreds of self-control. 

Persona and corporeality realigned by the majestic, leisure fucking in Cinderella waltz’ orchestral, triple time beat, head flailing frenziedly from side to side tried to shake off the mad thought spinning inside exultations giddy mind. Fabulous though the dizzying, sky high elevated surges of rapture by the grandiose conductor baton’s churning were, there was acute awareness them being mere meager emulations. Pale imitations of the eruptions that would follow, if the remainder of the not yet ramming inches were shoved all the way, with any and all obstructions sundering strength and speed. 

The thought was an absolute madness. Well past the blurred borders of sanity. But come what may, there was nothing more important, nor a sausage or courgette big enough in the store that could have quelled the crazy craving. The all consciousness consuming yearning to experience that ultimate, reality surpassing and transcending euphoria.

Despite how crazy and risky it was. 

Choked up, tears of frustration added saltiness to the sweeping, pussy juices spewing blisses rhapsody.

“Why are you crying?” Stopping humming, but not her loins leisure seesawing they were engaged in, Cindy was mystified by the sudden waterworks. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the fruits are fine after a rinse. Or you could use them for those really cool rainbow smoothies you sell. I love them.”

The innocuous culinary confession snapped the thin thread of sanity inside the giddy head trashing sweat soaked titian hair from side to side. More than ready and willing, overwhelmed with uncontrollable compulsion, the shop-manager’s euphoric moaning halted for the couple of seconds it took to scream out the unbearable frustration, “Fuck.the.Fruits! Shove.Your.Whole.Fucking.Cock.In! Every.Last.Inch! NOW! Or I swear, I’m gonna scream so fucking loud that everyone in the county hears what your name really is, COCKARELLA!!” 

Flabbergasted by a teary rant and suicidal yelling of the covert nickname whispered behind the back straight to face, for a moment the hips that had so far been swaying regally stopped. The lost poise was recovered in the time it took to withdraw the long, _loooong_ trek of the grand scepter’s tumescent knob all the way back, to the rim of gaping, clasping ring of muscles avid grasp.

Lips curling in sneer, Cindy asked, “You really think you can handle everything?” 

Despite delirious from cascade of myriad climaxes that had crashed through and battered her sweat soaked, uncontrollably thrashing body, the shop-manager felt intense urge to prove wrong the haughty, mocking gaze directed down and inviting to check what it meant. Lifting laboriously head up, hazy eyes managed to peek over the triple melons and belly dome’s crests. 

Knuckles whitening on hands grasping the melon, eyes opening big as saucers focused on the awe-inspiring long and wide slab of royal fuck-meat bridging dizzyingly long span from the center of maximum spread thighs and gaping labials to the loli-princess’s groin; a span broad and long enough for an adult with size 12 shoes (at both sides at the end of aisle twenty-six) to stand on it with both feet lined up without any need to posses circus actor’s balance. 

Mouth panting and eyes gleaming with greater greediness than on shoppers fighting each other in the four-pounds-for-one in the four minute super-sales at the meat counter, they stared at the incomparably better and bigger offer. The so covetable prime grade A+ mega-tubesteak. Its gigantic beefiness ready to overfill greedy belly. 

“I-I don’t know, b-but...” Swan throat gulping, the tongue that had earlier sampled the awe inspiring amount of the creamy and delectable, intoxicating output licked suddenly dry lips. “...I don’t care if I split and break. Just... _MAKE ME YOUR BITCH TOTALLY!_ Stop teasing me! Ram your fucking huge monster cock finally all the way in! _P-PLEASE! BALLS-OUT, BALLS-DEEP!!_ ”

Cheshire grin replaced the haughtiness. “ You say you want all? Everything and no holding back. Not even teensy bit?”

Sweaty head bobbing erratically from too many body convulsing muscle cramps and exhaustion steadied itself so it could nod vigorously, turning the shop-manager into life-sized, stunningly sexy and heavily pregnant bobblehead.

“You better hope you can handle all, because you are about the get every last bit...” The elfin hands hold on the sperm bloated waist strengthening, the ballgown loins lunged. In one mighty, unstoppable thrust the titanic princess-cock rammed forward. 

“Here. _Everything_. All the way!”

The juggernaut prick-scepter embellished by finger thick veins crisscrossing it having at first withdrawn its entire extent—except for the tumescent, pussy-breaking big, pomelo sized glans; the less taxing reference underneath the back pressing against the spleen—then sheathing all the way to the hilt with unstoppable momentum into a super snug schlong sucker had a mind-boggling, staggering impact. Analogous to experiencing a freight train’s collision in the middle of one’s innards in a tension rising, slow-motion backward locomotion—then driven in sudden, abrupt fast-forward motion against a wall—and through it. 

No matter how hot and horny the nymphomaniac-cumdumpster transformed shop-manager was, desiring, expecting, bracing for it, it was something inconceivable, impossible to prepare for. Breath knocked out in a long, choked scream, cleaved in two and through, the for the past hour skillfully roomier wedged and sculpted fertility model’s body lunged and trashed about. Heels drumming fruits to mush, themelon shattered under the hands pressure gripping it. 

Witnessed from behind the camera tripod the outpouring fruity redness spreading on the bulging abdomen made it look as if the taut stretched skin had ruptured. The mushroomed end of the insanely deep battering-rammed megalithic loli-princess’ with magnum champagne bottle’s girth bursting out any moment like alien from the large, embossed extrusion stamped from inside on the distended belly dome. 

Remaining obstructing stuffings blocking thrusts track cocked aside by the blunt tip, for a moment the shop-manager was sure that her insides had been rent asunder from getting rammed and crammed overabundantly full with impossible amount of royal cock-meat. For a second feeling dismayed that she wouldn’t after all enjoy the greatest possible bliss a living being could, until hearing her own cries of rapture. Despite feeling skewered all the way through, her innards hadn’t ruptured.

The clamoring instincts, for and against, had been right, mostly. The unrivaled ecstasies experienced so far still had been totally inadequate to prepared at the strength of greatest ever, loins splitting, teeth grinding, cataclysmic eruption pulverizing pelvis and mind into smithereens. The pieces instantly compacting and exploding, constricting tendons nearly tearing from their effort to contain the upwelling visceral spasms, the contraction and expansion cycle repeated with every suction resisted pull and powerful forward plunges that followed in thrillingly swift, punishing pace. 

The melon shattered, tremulous hands hurried their white-knuckled grasps on the edges of the over ton weighting stall rocking from the force of womb combusting plunges. Ululating and undulating in heated frenzy the shop-manager heaved and pitched herself mindlessly against the massive meat mallet hammering its tremendous bulk into her tearing point stretched inner anatomy. Although top-quality, her succulent cuntlet already thoroughly tender and juicy, she _reveled_ at being subjected to the same kind of heavy pummeling tenderizing as the cheaper, chewier, less than prime steaks in the super-sale from the meat-counter required. Marinated completely through with slutty greediness, orgasm zeniths surging so frequent they blurred into single extended one, every cell in her body was heated and fried in vibration of high frequency climaxes. 

Nymphomaniac, artfully cultivated cumdumpster that she had been metamorphosed to, the shop-manager assisted the royal pummeling anyway she could. Gathering and using every last ounce of strength still available in her body she maneuvered to get impaled even deeper by the cleaving enormity. Fruits splitting and shattering underneath gyrating form registered only at the outmost periphery of vacuous gone awareness. Heedless of the spoilage, pussy and fruit, screaming uncontrollably, she extolled the ecstasy of royalty of cocks: a preteen girl’s gargantuan princess-cock that was over-filling and driving its latest conquest crazy with its punishingly magnificent grandness.

Shouting garbled adulations, ineffably frustrated whenever the vascular vastitude made the overlong trek back to the entrance of the fuck tunnel it had drilled all the way through miraculous pliancy attained body in preparation for the next plunge, she wailed shrilly ‘ _Fuck.Me! FUCK.ME!’_ , until successive, from end-to-end prodigious inches breath out knocking punch triggered the next surge to erupt outward from upheaving groin and the passage of ecstasy getting rammed overfull. Endless succession of explosions that radiated all the way to painfully curling toes in tensed, wide splayed legs; racing all the way to the top of skull, blowing it off—again and again. 

Slammed repeatedly into the bijou receptacle, the megalith princess cock hilted remorselessly with each of the slinky loins thrusts into the cuntlet doing wide open, wholesale business to accommodate the tremendous demand. The loudness of idolatry at the huge-cocked loli-princess fucking a mature, fully ripe and fertile purveyor of prime pussy with the power of interstate freight train rising higher with each imploding orgasm explosion.

The loins equally generously gifted in skill and related appendage toiling in furious, creative passion a new Cinderella signature masterwork took shape. The ruin-this-pussy-forever-for-others pace unwavering, with every powerful plunge, the extravagant, disproportionate talents entire extent immersed itself totally; to the last fraction of inch, the heavy baby-cream filled coconuts spanking the elated cumdumpster’s gorgeous booty. 

Artful and fulfilling filling fountaining from plug at the end of plunging shaft increasing the belly dome’s size, out spurting surges inflated swelling womb expeditiously from June to July. Stroking and squirting with furious pace, the gigantically creative appendage progressed it further along the months track, aiming for the next easter. The pressure inside a fertile amphora rising with every supplementary shot, the excessive art supplement fulfilling contents leaked around the furiously pumping plunger.

Hips a blur, gown’s hemline fluttering like in gale at a mile a minute speed, after couple of miles, Cindy was struck by déjà-vu. How much her store-special cumdumpster’s undulations and shrilly yodeling resembled Ms. Caliri’s, the science teacher, in an experiment she had helped Han-Nah, her geeky friend, carry out earlier in the week. 

The aim had been to test how much various forms of skinship differed, by investigating the difference of both of them using the same teacher, or two different ones. The research conducted by first flattening the curves of their favorite ones, the outwardly very similar art and science against each other. The kissing and embracing teachers rubbed together until the two measurers could feel each others probers through the separating layers of thin stretched skins. Followed by second test with only one, for control testing also if there was difference between teachers. 

No great disparity was found, at least not any measurable amount. Except for Ms. Caliri’s more shriller yodeling, expressing her enthusiasm for empirical research slightly louder than Ms. Pazolla. Which was quite natural, she being the science teacher after all. The conclusion after repeated tests had been that it was much easier when both had their own teacher. Cramming two into one not feeling that much closer, but twice harder to achieve, and the sensation too jam-packed. 

Which led Cindy to remember what her brainiac friend had said about inspirations. Han-Nah proclaiming that the best method to get ideas was to immerse oneself into seeking them with someone else. The statement delivered with the customary matter-of-fact voice, “I’ve discovered that the optimal way to stimulate _my_ _cerebral cortex_ is by having _my_ _erect_ _intromittent_ _organ_ stimulate _someone else’s cervix_.” while bouncing excitedly yelping Ms. Caliri up and down in her lap. Evidently stimulating inspirations so rapidly and soundly that afterwards the science teacher’s brains had been scrambled from all the rebounding ideas. On account she being heard the next day agreeing with Mrs. Akema, the school’s nurse rubbing her bulging tummy that one plus one could equal three, or maybe even more. 

Total immersion achieved, once again to its maximum colossal length and thickness tumefied loli-princess-cock rooted firmly into pussy convulsing in non-stop orgasms, the furious ploughing hips hammering and shaping a soon knocked-up masterwork didn’t need anymore concentration from conscious mind. 

Gaze roaming all over her in ecstasy heaving and jerking, obscenities yodeling model Cindy sought fresh inspirations. While large and firm, the juddering pair of best of the breasts with the thumb sized and hard nubsin middle of large areolae above wide and veiny cock-ridge humpbacked belly were too ordinary occurrence. They didn’t spark any new artistic visions. The bargain boobs on sisters under the breakfast table were the same size, while the veritable tankers on mother used as pillows being much bigger, whereas Ms. Pazolla’s delectable, perky missile cone tits were perfect both in shape to gaze as well as lick, even when they were shaking hard—or maybe especially then?—when seeking inspirations for new artistic projects. Cindy always encouraged by their owner to seek new ways to express her creativity, preferably on the sweating and adulations ululating art-teacher. 

What about the face then? Nah, it was no good either. The agog, blissed out expression was the same as everybody else’s. 

Beginning to wonder the truth of studious friend’s statement, the wandering observations suddenly perceived something intriguing. Attention focused on the interesting point of view, the churning loins slowed their locomotion all the way back to leisure swaying. Ignoring the plaintive protests at the sluggish ramming after gloriously furious pummeling, the eyes forced slightly out of focus could see it. The crisp, tapering tan lines viewed from the vantage point of underboob direction, they formed two soaring spires of a castle. And the vein latticed protrusion on the belly raising and lowering in the lazy rhythm of ramming hips was very much like a portcullis. 

Mulling the impression for several additional measured churns, Cindy decided to try something. Lowering the portcullis first all the way, she then slammed it up, all the way between the towers. The top of protrusion raising between the quaking breast crests, the plebeians dissident at royalty’s laziness stopped and turned into elated howls of jubilation. 

The artist in her immersing itself totally in the new found concept, and her model, fixing the view firmly in mind, Cindy muttered thoughtfully, “A castle.”

“Hassle? If she is not good anymore, do you want me to sub, Cinderella?” The covetous, hopefully panted query behind the camera tripod sounded similarly out of breath as the model-castle’s.

Engrossed in the new notion the tan lines had sparked, the misinterpretation was corrected absentmindedly, “Not hassle, castle.”

“Splendid idea!” Though enthusiastic, the approval was filled with disappointment and puzzlement. “Errr...what exactly do you mean, Cinderella?”

Ignoring the question, attention lost in creative fervor of the newly acquired mental image she had stumbled on, Cindy concentrated to explore it with her nearly complete artwork. Retreating the portcullis slowly, she raised it again with a slam. The loud gasp and elated groans this evoked were reminiscent of real ones clang and grating. 

Absorbed in playing with new idea the vision had triggered, thoughts wandering, Cindy muttered, “A castle... a princess...”,while the creative loins slammed repeatedly with swooshing, loud smacks against model-castle’s wide open busted pink gate. The heavy, full cannonballs thwacking against the luscious booty, yowls and choked moans of elated exultation greeted each battering-rammed incursion. 

Inside every adult woman, particularly although grown up they have made themselves the spitting image of a Barbie, still lives that little girl who played with dolls and dreamed of living in a castle like a princess. Consequently a mistake was made, which in normal frame of mind would have been avoided at all costs. The artist’s wandering thoughts and battering-ramming womb-gate-bashing were interrupted by exited babble.

“How stupid of me! Of scourse! There should be a castle where you could live, Cinderella. With a ballroom and maids, and a huge, canopied bed in the bedroom...” Judging from drooling enthusiasm the art teacher was envisioning herself in the bed with its royal occupant.

“Yes...exactly. A castle to live in. You know, Ms. Pazolla, it’s like you are reading my mind.” Although magnanimous, there was definite undercurrent of peevishness in the around turning preteen’s voice. 

The bed of mushed fruits suddenly changing being suspended perpendicular above floor by her royal customer’s phenomenal, staggering extent burgeoned cock, the to the hilt fuck-flummoxed shop-manager’s groggy eyes stared at incomprehension the camera lens above her nose. 

“WOW, Cinderella! This perspective along the front...just WOW!” The camera handler enthused, concentrating on capturing all of the exciting outline of the extrusion embellishing the model’s front, reaching all the way between the double melons. Excitedly recording the offered scene the normally high attenuation to the artist’s moods missed the discontent. 

The deeply impaled lever flexing, in imitation of a drawbridge the dumbfounded cumdumpster was raised to vertical. Behind this rapidly retreating screen hiding the away stomping artist and the imaginations firing spheres and sensational veiny bulge came pensive, “I think this isn’t best place for final shot after all. I’ll look around for a better place.” 

Left behind, wrestling for a moment with the tripod, the camera handler hastened to follow. Luckily the model’s constant moaning and groaning, punctuated by frequent yells of elation from the artist’s rapid pace along aisles pouncing her up and down on the royal scepter, made it easy to follow where they were heading. On particularly vigorous forward stomps the titian hair occasional bopping high above the shelfs helping pinpoint the location. 

After half an hour of futile chasing understanding dawned. The art teacher was being deliberately led around the store. Belated realization of the faux pas committed earlier inciting a bout of panic, she called out to her mistress and queen, “Cinderella, please wait!” 

The steps and accompanied moans and groans still receding, gritting teeth under the tripod and camera’s weight, chin pushed to panting chest, the devoted follower started to run. Following the incessantly emitted moans and elated orgasms yells, she pursued the one who ruled her heart. No matter how long it would take .  Or passed out in trying to reach the one who had claimed ownership of her body and its orifices—especially the ones between her legs. The in so many ways mulish, but still ladylike preteen whom she worshipped with fervent passion. And especially whose queenly, gigantic girl-cock was bigger and better than the biggest of horsedick-dildos hurled out as trash, pathetic in comparison. 

Hearing the patter of running feet, the smile on the aristocratic face buried between the melon hooters widened. Despite the deep cleavage preventing seeing where she was heading, Cindy increased the pace of her heels clicks. Albeit blind to where her rapid steps were taking her between the shelfs, she navigated unerringly round the corners relying on the echoes of the loudly reverberating orgasm noises the shop-manager emitted in steady pulses. 

Carried round and round the store, her pussy and womb pounced sore and numb in a hard-core game of duck, duck, goose, the shop-manager was reaching the end of her endurance for constant peaking of genital pleasures. 

On a particularly sharp turn a sweaty hand’s grip on the rapidly pacing and forward ramming artist’s shoulder faltered. Instinctively reaching out for balance, it knocked over a tower of cans with a clatter. The everywhere in cascade pouncing cans filling the store with their noise the pussy punishing and gushing stride faltered, while the quickly closing patter of running feet stopped into a clang and agonized wail. 

Turning and lowering her model-drawbridge, Cindy looked with raised eyebrow at the art teacher sprawled in hapless heap, legs tangled with the camera tripod. 

“Now I know why you are always telling us not run in the school’s corridors, Ms. Pazolla.” The teasing tone didn’t totally mask the evident worry. 

Stifling a sniffle, moue mouth panting hard, the platinum blonde peroxided diminutive teacher’s shoulder slumped in relief at the expressed concern. Untangling a slender leg from tripod, the barbie face grimaced when an ankle tried to bear the slight weight put on it. 

“You are hurt!” As abruptly and rudely as it was rammed in, without disregard of the shock of the sudden emptiness from its bulk would trigger, the disproportionate poundage was wrestled away from the vagina and womb it had occupied the past hour; the latter expanded by the art supplement filling it roomy enough to house sextuplets. 

Dumped unceremoniously on the floor, the shop-manager sighed at her efforts being bested by a single fake tear and pretend twisted ankle. In spite of having done her utmost to show that her pussy, and by extension store, was the best in town.

“It’s nothing, Cinderella, you don’t have to carry me. I’ll hobble along, if you are a dear and carry the camera or tripod.” Lifted up on arms, for which hold she was ready to lie and murder for if need be, the art teacher—who was far better actress than the shop-manager—smiled smugly over the ballgown’s shoulder. As far she was concerned the on floor discarded, slumped and slowly deflating store-slut’s only role had been to prime the regal princess-cock for the real, royal ramming. The an hour of, in view of numerous past incidents, leisure fucking bare minimum for it.

“No. It’s better if you carry them, and I’ll carry you.” Was the decision after thoughtful glance at the copious streams of lubricious essence oozing from between slim thighs trembling in yearning before splattering on the linoleum. 

Tenderly settled back on feet rubbing thighs together, bowing to pick up camera from the floor while artfully presenting a pert heart-shaped buttocks, the video kit was picked up by hands shaking in ardent knowledge what was going to happen. And sure, seized by the waist, her legs promptly wide spreading life-sized teacher barbie was raised giddily high, to a point of vertigo. Where she was turned around and rammed down on different type of vertiginousness—impaled in a thrilling, familiar smooth motion to the absolute maximum gigantism staged loli-princess-cock. Overabundant lubing running along its vast girth’s expanse, the sliding of over two feet of gargantuan princess-prick into the devoted cum depository, one of several that couldn’t be pleasured by anything lesser anymore, was accompanied with lurid, protracted slurps. 

_“UNNGGGGH!_ YESSH, CINDERELLA! CARRY ME ALL AROUND THE TOWN ON YOUR GINORMOUS SCEPTER! SHOW EVERYONE HOW YOU TUCK YOUR PETER IN MY COOCH EVERY STEP!” Yelled the petite teacher, uncontrollable seizures rocking her barbie figure used as cozily snug cock-sock bulging grotesquely from being speared through from crotch all the way to torso. 

The royalty departing with the dolly she had brought along, there were two things left behind. 

The first, gooey whiteness running along and around the slinky gown waist entwined, quavering legs dripping a slippery trail on the spotless tiles. 

The second, a thoroughly knocked-up shop-manager. Who, in the end having grasped the essence and fulfilling her role as Miss June, followed with blurry eyes the retreating ballgown’s back.

Despite having been upstaged and dismissed without second thought, tossed away like a banana peel, a dreamy smile was plastered on her face. She could feel it already, the knowledge planted and pulsating deep in her belly. In nine months there would be a new descendant in the royal lineage. A new, precious princess of her own. 

****

The iron gate bearing a royal crest of prancing unicorn opened—technically a duocorn having one below belly too—the shimmering plastic heels skipped along the tiles to the front entrance. With widening smile Cindy recalled the unified, heart warming consensus at the bank the castle being an excellent idea, when she had visited to deposit downpayment on every teller, and especially on the manager for its construction. The enthusiasm unwavering on the following, recurring weekly visits to speed up the construction. 

The door opening from inside, a deeply curtseying twin lines of maids, in many cases awkwardly because of advanced pregnancy, greeted the ruler of the ersatz castle. 

Thinking of what was in her backpack, exited sparkles played in royal blue eyes. With Han-Nah’s gifts, tonight’s celebratory balling would be extra special.


End file.
